


STIFF

by aussiebee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 07:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14184390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee
Summary: It begins with a book about cadavers, and ends up with the sheriff thoroughly traumatised by an encounter in Whole Foods.But somewhere along the way Derek and Stiles manage to fall in love.





	STIFF

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akinasky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akinasky/gifts).



“What the fuck are you reading?” Derek asked, staring at a pair of feet with a mortuary toe tag on it with the word ‘STIFF’ in block capital letters on the cover.

Dropping the book flat on his chest and stretching his arms up over his head with a yawn, Stiles grinned at Derek from where he was lying on Derek’s bed and lifted the book again. “It’s called  _ Stiff _ ,” he said, redundantly, because Derek could see that for himself, thanks. “It’s about cadavers.”

Derek snorted. “Of course it is.”

“I mean, I admit that the reason I bought it from the second-hand bookstore down on Mercury-- and  _ ooh _ , have you been to the bakery opposite the shoe store down there? Best brownies ever, I promise-- that the reason I bought it was because it says ‘stiff’ on the cover, but it’s about cadavers, and it’s actually really interesting.”

Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning briefly caused the lights to flicker. “Tell me,” Derek said contentedly from his spot in the armchair across the living space from where Stiles was reading.

Stiles grinned. “Did you know that the anus of a cadaver has to be stitched closed for a funeral to avoid any  _ unpleasantness _ leaking out?”

“And there you go, making me regret having ever having met you,” Derek said exasperatedly.

“Hey, don’t be like that, Doom-Brows,” Stiles smirked. “I enrich your life.”

“That would mean you  _ enhance _ the quality of my life,” Derek told him snarkily, tossing a pen at Stiles. “I think we can both agree that that is unreservedly  _ not _ the case after that little fact.”

“Words hurt, bro,” Stiles grinned, catching the pen in midair and twirling it around his fingers.

“Not your bro,” Derek reminded him with a sigh, ignoring the flip in his belly at the way Stiles was smiling at him.

“God, I certainly hope not,” Stiles muttered, tossing his book and the pen aside as he rolled luxuriantly all over Derek’s bed. “What the hell do you wash your sheets with?” he demanded to know. “They smell incredible and they're so  _ soft _ .”

Derek sighed, knowing full well that his bed was going to utterly  _ reek _ of Stiles for the next couple of days.

 

*

 

A week after that, as Derek was sitting at the kitchen table and going over some of the case files he’d brought home for work, Stiles let himself into the loft with a book in one hand and a toolbox in the other.

“Hey, Wolfenstein,” he greeted cheerfully, thumping the toolbox down on the table and adding his book to the small stack growing on top of the fridge. “What’re you up to?”

“I was  _ trying _ to work,” Derek told him archly, frowning in confusion when Stiles opened the toolbox and pulled out a jar of honey, a monkey wrench and a roll of duct tape.

“God, you’re such a nerd,” Stiles grinned, tossing the honey at Derek before pulling a mixing bowl from a cabinet drawer and yanking open the doors beneath the sink. “Who even brings homework home on  _ purpose _ ?”

“What’s this?” Derek asked as he eyed the jar suspiciously, then rolled his eyes at Stiles’ smirk. “I can see that it’s honey, idiot; what did you give it to me for?”

“Because you’re so sweet,” Stiles simpered, then grinned widely and sat on the floor and began tearing duct tape off the roll to cover the teeth of the wrench. “So, fun fact: the word mellifluous comes from the late Latin  _ mel _ , meaning ‘honey’, and  _ fluere _ , meaning ‘to flow’.”

“Riveting,” Derek drawled, watching as Stiles set the mixing bowl-- the one he used for pancakes, for god’s sake-- beneath the J-bend and used the wrench to loosen the slip joint nuts.

“Right?” Stiles agreed, finishing undoing the nuts by hand and dropping them and the loose section of pipe into the bowl, along with a gush of fetid, dirty water. He fished an O-ring from out of the bowl and dried it carefully with a rag drawn from his back pocket, inspecting it carefully before setting it aside.

“And you have the nerve to call  _ me _ a nerd,” Derek muttered.

“Shut up, buttercup,” Stiles grinned over his shoulder. “Toss me the nylon brush in there, would you?” His smile disappeared and he glared as the small white brush thunked into the back of his head with unerring aim. “You’re fucking delightful, you know that?  _ Anyway _ , the book I was reading last night is called  _ How to Mellify a Corpse: and Other Human Stories of Ancient Science and Superstition _ . Any guesses as to what ‘mellify’ means?”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Derek said, watching as Stiles scrubbed the inside of the pipe, scraping a whole heap of gunk out and into the bowl.

“Dude, the Greeks and Romans used to to embalm bodies with it! They knew nothing about it, had no idea about the antiseptic and antibacterial properties of honey- primarily caused by the hydrogen peroxide effect, obviously-”

“Obviously,” Derek muttered.

“-but somehow managed to figure it out enough to use it as a kind of mummification.”

Stiles began drying the piece of pipe with the same cloth before replacing the O-ring and reassembling the P-trap. “You find the weirdest crap interesting,” Derek told him. “And what, exactly, are you doing to my goddamn sink?”

“Calm your farm, dude,” Stiles smirked, getting to his feet and dropping the bowl into the sink. “I covered the grips so they wouldn’t scratch your pipes.” He pulled the duct tape from the wrench and tossed it in the bin.

“Not my concern, and still didn’t answer my question,” Derek scowled.

“You’re always bitching about the sink taking forever to drain, and that it keeps backing up. Well, I fixed that for you. Should be right as rain, now.”

The wolf part of Derek’s nature arched with pleasure at the way Stiles was caring for him, but he ignored it. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Stiles looked at him as though he was an idiot as he returned his wrench to the toolbox and washed his hands at the sink. “Of course you didn’t, dummy,” Stiles said, his previously-contented scent sharpening into something acrid and unpleasant. “I think we’d all die of shock if you were ever to ask for help.” He finished packing up but paused, watching Derek closely for a moment before sighing and looking away. “Try the honey,” he advised. “Might level out some of that sourness you got going on there.”

And then he was gone, leaving Derek feeling restless and unsettled, and very confused.

 

*

 

“ _ Cod _ ,” Derek read loudly from the book opened page-down on Stiles’ chest where he was lying on the floor in front of the windows in a golden pool of late-afternoon sunlight, “ _ A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World _ .”

_ “‘And the whole club was dancing like a salmon floating upstream,’” _ Stiles exclaimed as he jerked awake with a start, legs twitching.

Derek snorted a laugh. “You’re so strange.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound as fond as it ended up being, but luckily for him Stiles was disoriented enough to miss the odd weightiness to the words.

“Why would you do that to me?” Stiles complained, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. “I was  _ napping _ .”

“On my floor. At five in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, well. Shut up.” Stiles sat up with a groan as he sat up. “Where is your bed, anyway? I  _ love _ your bed.”

“Moved it upstairs,” Derek shrugged, dropping his keys, phone and bag filled with Chinese food on the coffee table.

“You carried it up that staircase all on your own?” Stiles asked, eyeing the steel spiral in the corner of the room.

Derek shrugged and shoved a container of mu shu pork at Stiles. “Not like it was hard,” he mumbled. Stiles muttered something that sounded suspiciously like  _ hirsute, muscle-bound asshole _ as he began eating, companionable silence settling over them. “So,” Derek said eventually, “how’s work?”

Stiles snorted a laugh. “Are you seriously trying to make small-talk right now?” he asked.

“Screw you,” Derek scowled uncomfortably. “You’re always bitching that I don’t talk enough, then when I do--”

“Woah,” Stiles said suddenly, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he stared at Derek. “I was teasing, Derek. It’s what friends do.”

Feeling heat creep up his cheeks, Derek glanced away from Stiles and glared at his chopsticks. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Stiles smiled, and when Derek looked back at him his beautiful brown eyes were warm with affection. “Anyway, so last night we were called out to a drunk in public-- some dude sitting with just pants and one spray-painted gold shoe on in McCartney Park. He was super drunk, barely coherent, and had no idea where he was. But get this,” he said, a wide grin splitting his face, “he had no phone and no ID of any kind, but he  _ did _ have a bag full of fish.”

Derek frowned, confused. “Like, a bag of goldfish crackers?”

“No,” Stiles began to laugh, “a plastic bag filled with a half-dozen assorted tropical fish.”

“Why?” Derek asked, confused, which made Stiles laugh even harder, his face flushing with it.

“I have no fucking idea,” he managed to get out, “and neither did the guy. He  _ doesn’t even own a fish tank!” _

Stiles’ laughter was infectious and Derek found himself chuckling along as well as Stiles grabbed his sides and tried to regain his breath. “So?” he asked eventually, once Stiles had taken a drink of water and settled a little. “What happened to the fish?”

Stiles laughed again. “Simpson took them home; apparently he has a saltwater aquarium setup he can add them to.”

“Well thank goodness for that,” Derek said with mock-gravitas.

“I knew you’d be relieved,” Stiles nodded agreeably, shooting a smile at Derek.

Derek could feel the contentment rolling off Stiles and it made something within him settle at the same time as his heart felt like it was in freefall.

  
  


They finished dinner and Stiles joined Derek on the couch when he was done tidying up, the book about cod in his hand as he pushed and prodded at Derek until they were arranged the way he wanted. Stiles grinned up at him from where his head rested in Derek’s lap and grabbed Derek’s awkwardly hovering arm to drape it across his own chest.

“Buckle up, Remus,” Stiles grinned again as he opened the book, beginning to read where he’d left off when he’d fallen asleep.

Derek let his head fall back so it was resting on the back of the couch, Stiles’ calm voice surprisingly soothing as it travelled around the otherwise-quiet loft. After a while, seemingly without realising, one of Stiles’ big hands came up to wrap around Derek’s forearm, fingertips idly carding through the hair there as he read, holding the book one handed without any trouble.

There was an easy domesticity to their interactions, Derek thought vaguely as Stiles let his fingers roam and explore. He had always been aware of it, just how mundane their friendship could be considered, but Derek had missed it more than he thought. Having someone just show up and be present in the same space as him for no other reason than to simply  _ be _ there was a frighteningly intimate level of friendship that he hadn’t anticipated; it was especially unexpected arriving in the form of Stiles.

Or was it, though? Sitting there and thinking about it in that moment of quiet companionship, Derek thought maybe he should have seen it coming. Not  _ Stiles _ , per se-- who the hell could ever anticipate Stiles Stilinski?-- but once he got in beneath the skin and allowed the select few to see glimpses of the heart of him, Stiles’ loyalty, faithfulness and dogged determination all pointed to him being the most loyal of friends.

And they were, Derek thought suddenly with no small degree of surprise. Stiles was probably his closest friend, and unless he was much mistaken, Derek was probably the same for him. Since Scott and Kira had married and moved away his and Stiles’ friendship had inevitably changed, something Derek knew Stiles had struggled with.

He frowned a little. Was he now Stiles’ closest friend by default? Was it Scott’s absence that had led to Stiles  _ needing _ someone in that role? Was--

“Hey,” Stiles said suddenly, his fingers stilling where they had been lazily manipulating Derek’s fingers and flexing the knuckles distractedly as he read. “What’s the scowl for?”

Looking down at Stiles, his familiar face waiting patiently, Derek just blurted out his question. “Are we only friends because Scott moved away?” He winced at how accusatory that sounded, but to his surprise Stiles just laughed delightedly.

“Dude, no takebacks!” Stiles exclaimed. “That’s the first time you’ve ever acknowledged the fact that we’re friends, and that you like me, even if it’s just by proxy.”

“I… like you just fine, I guess,” Derek managed.

Stiles snorted inelegantly. “Did it hurt, having to say that?” he asked wryly. “Because it sure sounded like it hurt. But to answer your question,  _ no _ we are not just friends because Scott left town. As far as I’m concerned, we were friends before Scott left. Not my fault that you’re late to the party. Now shut up and listen to this, would you? ‘The Vikings had travelled from Norway to Iceland to Greenland to Canada, and it is not a coincidence that this is the exact range of the Atlantic cod…’”

Stiles seemed perfectly at ease with his declaration, so Derek decided he could be, too, and leaned his head back again as he closed his eyes. He missed the little smile that curled Stiles’ mouth as his fingers felt the uptick in Derek’s pulse, but he basked in the sweet scent of pleasure that the two of them made and surrounded themselves in.

 

*

 

The pile of bizarrely-titled books on top of Derek’s fridge grew, gradually expanding to the coffee table, the unused armchair, and eventually his bedside table. That had been a moment of dissociation that Derek had struggled with, coming into his own bedroom to find a stack of books ( _ The History of the Snowman: From the Ice Age to the Flea Market, The Secret World of Slugs and Snails: Life in the Very Slow Lane, _ and  _ Working IX to V: Orgy Planners, Funeral Clowns, and Other Prized Professions of the Ancient World _ ) and it taking a full few minutes to register that that was even  _ unusual _ , even for them. It took another long moment after that to realise that Stiles’ scent was here, too. Of all places in Derek’s life his bedroom had remained his last bastion of refuge, free of Stiles’ influence that had grown as surely as Derek’s feelings for him had.

Stiles’ scent wasn’t all over the bed so much as it was just present in the room, but it still made Derek want to wag a tail he didn’t actually have, and  _ that _ he was struggling with. He considered asking Stiles about it but didn’t think he was quite up to the conversation, so he let it go, instead heading into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

He picked up  _ Le Langage des Fleurs,  _ the spine still uncracked and the pages pristine, and began to read, bemusedly shaking his head at the convoluted Victorian method of symbolic messaging, thinking that Stiles would enjoy reading this whenever he got around to it and somehow managing to relate it to text messaging or something equally as ridiculous. He got almost halfway through before drifting off, floral dreams chasing him down.

  
  


When he awoke the next morning, Derek was somehow unsurprised to find Stiles lying on top of the comforter next to him, asleep with his long fingers still resting between the pages of  _ Flow: The Cultural Story of Menstruation _ and reeking of anxiety and fatigue _.  _ Derek just pulled the patchwork blanket that lived on the end of the bed over Stiles and slipped quietly from the room to make Stiles his usual cup of chamomile tea, the drink he preferred after a night of hard nightmares.

As he waited for the tea to brew, he looked thoughtfully down at the tin of loose-leaf tea, and managed a wry smirk as he picked one of the small, dried white and yellow flowers out, remembering that the book he had read the night before said that chamomile meant ‘attachment’. He was nothing if not attached to the idiot by now, he thought drily, and floated the single flower in the top of the otherwise-clear red-gold tea before leaving it on the bedside table for Stiles to find when he awoke.

After running a load of laundry and tidying up the kitchen from making breakfast, Stiles stumbled down the stairs, mug clutched carefully in one hand. “Morning,” he mumbled blearily, his hair flattened on one side of his head and on end on the other. “Sorry for crashing last night,” he said, slumping against the bench as he flicked the kettle back on to boil.

“Bad dreams?” Derek asked. Stiles shrugged, but Derek could sense the tension and pulled the cream cheese back out of the fridge for Stiles’ bagels which were waiting in the toaster. “You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

Some of the tension seemed to drain out of Stiles and he nodded once, meeting Derek’s eyes and flushing slightly before he glanced away.

Breakfast was prepared in comfortable silence, Derek at the kitchen table and working his way through one of the NY Times’ cryptic crosswords in the book that Stiles had bought for him for Christmas just gone, and Stiles leaning back against the counter and staring into midspace, the sharp morning sunlight making the dark circles beneath his eyes particularly noticeable as his expression shifted from anxious to bereft and his scent sharpened acridly to match.

“‘It's found in the ocean, and briefly in barnacles’,” Derek asked. “Two words, six and eight letters.”

Eyes dulled by exhaustion shifted slowly to meet his, and Derek could almost pinpoint the exact moment when Stiles got his enormous brain to focus on the wordplay and began thinking it over. “Briefly in barnacles, six and eight,” he mused quietly, gaze absently flitting all over Derek’s face as he puzzled it out. “Short word, then, or maybe an abbreviation… what maritime acronyms are there? ABS, AIS, ECS, DSV, NECSA? No, that’s night right. Hmm.” He turned away and began preparing his bagels, muttering under his breath as he went until he joined Derek at the table and took the book from him, frowning at the puzzle.

“What about some kind of creature found in the ocean with a short name?” Derek suggested.

“Not sure--” Stiles began, then quirked a sudden smile. “‘In the ocean’, you had it… only it’s  _ in _ the  _ ocean _ , not ‘in the ocean’,” he didn’t remotely clarify as he circled the ‘nacl’ in barnacles.

“NaCl,” Derek smiled as he got it. “Sodium chloride. Salt.  _ In _ the  _ ocean _ , not ‘in the ocean’.”

Stiles smiled back, his eyes a little less dark than they had been before.

 

*

 

Grocery shopping in order to get everything they needed for dinner was never as simple a chore as Derek expected it to be. Pushing Stiles around on the trolley as he stood on the end of it, however, was.

“What flour do you want for the pasta?” Stiles asked, holding up two bags to compare.

“The double-zero,” Derek told him, laughing when a hole in the bottom of one of the bags leaked a small cloud of flour over the front of Stiles’ Captain America tee.

“Shut it, douchewolf,” Stiles scowled, trying in vain to dust the flour off but only making it worse. Derek reached over for the flour he needed, but jerked back suddenly when Stiles clapped his hands to his cheeks, grinning evilly as he turned Derek’s scruff white with spilled flour.

“You are going to die a slow and painful death,” Derek promised, drawing back slowly to level a (not even slightly) menacing glare at Stiles, only to find him staring back with wide eyes and a look of stunned bewilderment on his face.

“God, you’re gonna be so sexy when you start going grey,” Stiles breathed, eyes fixed on Derek’s face, the yearning in his voice making Derek’s stomach flip. And then, when Stiles took a step backwards and dropped his eyes, it was all too much.

Derek’s hand shot out to wrap around Stiles’ wrist and hold him carefully in place, and he stepped forward until they were practically face to face in the cooking aisle of their local Whole Foods. “What are we doing, Stiles?”

“Shopping for dinner?” Stiles asked nervously, his eyes unwavering on Derek’s and his entire face lightening a little with a smirk at Derek’s exasperated expression. “Well,” he said eventually, voice strong but otherwise reeking of nerves, “I’ve been trying really hard not get my feelings all over you since, like, high school, while at the same time flirting with you because the way you smile makes me want to curl up and die of happiness.” There was a beat of silence between to two of them while a bored teenage voice called for a price check on register two and the overhead fluorescent light flickered briefly. “So. That’s what I’ve been doing.” His tongue darted out briefly to leave his lower lip shiny, brows creasing together in concern as Derek stared at him. “What-- what have  _ you _ been doing?”

“I have been trying desperately not to fall in love with you so I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you out of my life when you inevitably figured it out,” Derek confessed bluntly. “So.”

“I feel like there should be kissing now, or something,” Stiles said eventually, the two of them still standing almost face to face, but with Derek’s hand sliding down to lace their fingers together. “Maybe that’s something we could be doing?”

Derek leaned forward and slid his nose softly against the side of Stiles’, inhaling deeply and obviously and smiling at the way Stiles’ breath caught. “There are a lot of things I’d like to be doing right now,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice low to feel Stiles shiver and sway closer so that they were then touching from chest to knee, “but we really do need to get the pasta started or it won’t be ready in time.”

It took a moment, but the bewildered blinking that highlighted Stiles’ confusion made way for narrow-eyed calculation as he pressed his free hand flat to Derek’s chest and slid it up and around to firmly grasp the back of his neck. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?” he asked.

“Not if you ever want to be allowed back to Whole Foods, there’s not,” a voice came, loud and uncomfortably close, and Derek tried very hard not to react physically to the sudden tight clench of Stiles’ fingers and thumb where they curved around to the vulnerable sides of his throat with his surprise.

“Fuck, Dad,” Stiles cursed, actually having managed to curl his body right against Derek as though shielding him from a threat.

And damn, but that did some  _ wicked  _ things to Derek.

“Not if I can help it,” the sheriff disagreed cheerfully, his knowing blue eyes sparkling with irascible humour as he glanced back and forth between them. “At least, not here.”

“I wasn’t going to screw Derek right here,” Stiles protested immediately, his hand still locked in Derek’s. “I mean, a blowjob in the carpark, sure--”

“ _ Jesus, _ Stiles,” John and Derek both said at the same time, sharing an appalled look as Stiles laughed himself sick.

“That’s what you get for being a dick,” he eventually told his father.

“But what the hell did I do?” Derek asked petulantly.

“You were going to say no to that carpark offer,” Stiles told him.

“Oh I was, was I?”

“Yes, you damn well  _ were,” _ John interjected. “Holy hell, is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Am I going to be getting reports from the rest of the station about you two idiots being caught  _ in flagrante _ in public?”

“Of course not,” Stiles told his father like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “We’re not going to get  _ caught _ . What is this, amateur hour?”

“What did I ever do to deserve this?” John groaned, looking heavenward as though that would provide him with the answers he sought.

“Cockblocking our pre-sex negotiations, for one,” Stiles told him, holding a finger up. “Making innuendo, implying that I wouldn’t be able to orchestrate semi-public sex without getting caught.... I mean, that’s just insulting…”

“I am buying a steak the size of my face and you’re not saying a word about it,” John hissed, pointing an accusatory finger of his own at Stiles. “And I swear to god, kid, if I hear about you and Derek getting caught--”

“Oh don’t worry, we won’t be--”

“-- _ getting caught _ I will disown you and disavow any knowledge of you, of Derek, the pack, your right to the Stilinski name  _ and _ I will systematically eat my way through every bakery in this god-forsaken town as therapy. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, old man,” Stiles grinned. “Better go get that steak before  _ you _ hear  _ us _ though, if you know what I mean--”

“You’re the worst,” John growled, eyes narrowed in an expression that matched his son’s.

“Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?” Stiles asked cockily. “Come on, Derek; let’s get what we need to and try not to touch dicks between here and home.”

Derek flushed crimson and tried not to meet John’s eyes as Stiles dragged him away. “Uh, bye,” he managed, and got only muttered imprecations for his efforts as John stalked away to buy what Derek was sure would be the entire rump of a cow. “Stiles, your father is going to  _ kill me _ ,” he said mournfully, well aware of the Sheriff’s supply of wolfsbane rounds and his sniper-accurate aim.

Stiles just laughed. “Nah, you’re good. He’s been trying to convince me to make a move for the last year. Pretty sure if I didn’t ask you out on a date by Christmas he was just going to show up with adoption papers and try and keep you that way.”

To say Derek was stunned would have been slightly understating the mark. “Your dad what?”

“Yeah, he loves you, dude,” Stiles told him, blithely filling the cart with ingredients that were not at all essential for dinner. “Pretty sure he’s been rooting for us since before I graduated, but kept it on the DL until I turned eighteen. Then it was all ‘Derek this’ and ‘grandkids that’, and ‘think about a spring wedding, Stiles, because I’ve been looking over the incident reports and statistically there’s less likelihood of a supernatural even to disrupt a ceremony between the months of March and June’.” He stopped and looked assessingly at Derek. “What do you think?”

“Think?” Derek asked faintly, his brain having gone offline a little at ‘grandkids and wedding’.

“Yeah. I mean, not about Dad being a total wedding-psycho, but about the forever and ever-type stuff?”

“That’s-- that’s something you’re interested in?” Derek asked cautiously.

“Not tomorrow, or anything,” Stiles told him, finally stopping and turning to watch Derek carefully. “But one day. In the future. Distant future. Yeah, I want that with you.”

Staring at Stiles, taking in the way his shirt was unravelling at the hem, the way his jeans-- or, rather,  _ Derek’s  _ jeans-- hung low on his hips, and how blatantly open and trusting his face was, Derek wanted all of that too. “Good,” he breathed, then leaned across the cart and pressed his mouth gently to Stiles’, revelling in the smile he could feel to match his own.

“Awesome,” Stiles said faintly as they parted, slightly dazed before his eyes cleared and began sparkling with mischief. “Now come on, let’s go buy this stuff and find Dad’s car so we can make out on the hood of it until he’s done and comes out and finds us.”

Derek laughed out loud and allowed Stiles to pull him by the hand towards the registers.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the books mentioned in this little piece of pointlessness are real! Check them out for some hella interesting facts! The title is just because I am, and ever will be, a child at heart (and brain, lbr).
> 
> The thing Stiles says when Derek wakes him up from his nap is from The Salmon Dance by The Chemical Brothers which I have an undying love for due to Drunken Shenanigans™.
> 
>  
> 
> [Wanna come look at all the pretty Sterek stuff I post?](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/aussiebee)


End file.
